


Lonely Hunter

by NeonCigarretesAtTheBeach



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Akechi Goro Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassins & Hitmen, Character Study, Crime Drama, Detective Noir, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Neo-Noir, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Partners in Crime, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set in Vanilla but includes Royal characters, Slow Burn, Yakuzas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonCigarretesAtTheBeach/pseuds/NeonCigarretesAtTheBeach
Summary: Nine years after the events of the engine room, in the maze of Kobe, Goro Akechi is an assassin working for the most powerful yakuza clan in Japan. Moonlighting as a private investigator, Goro is bound to the criminal underworld by criminal codes as well as the consequences of his troubled past.In the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, the last words of a dying man set Commissioner Makoto Niijima into a dangerous investigation surrounding gruesome murders of yakuzas as well as the search of missing Goro Akechi.An anti-hero with a hunger to escape his existence and a weary and bitter Commissioner are soon forcefully set in a path to unravel a conspiracy as they make their way between an escalating gang war while the rotten and decaying shells of the world of politics and crime follow their every move in a mystery that starts with a bang and goes on shooting but doesn’t hit the bullseye.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro & Niijima Makoto, Akechi Goro/Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Kurusu Akira/Niijima Makoto
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Winter Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine years after the bloody and metallic memories of an engine room, a hunter turned pray pays an unexpected social call.
> 
> In the maze of Kobe, Japan, the 'Majima & Yoshizawa Detective Agency get leads on a new case.

_“He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.”_

  * _George Orwell._



  
  


**-GORO (OR HIRO)-**

  
  


A wounded crow with broken wings advances steadily through a labyrinth, and the shadows followed.

The labyrinth is colossal. Huge, multi-colored walls keep the crow imprisoned, trapped. Back alleys mock the crow with its dead ends. A dark sky protects the entire place with the exception of the faint, misty silhouettes of buildings and mountains silhouetted by the horizon, and the giant walls that replace the classic hedges of classic mazes. It gives a fake sensation of hope to the crow, a feeling that there’s still more out there than the prison he’s in.

Blinding lights make the crow’s eyes feel sore. Distorted voices coming from billboards located in the walls shout to the labyrinth, drilling into the crow’s ears. In the floor; highways, lanes and streets intertwine with each other, meandering through the entire area. High buildings concealed the beauty of the sky.

And, most importantly, shadows flood the maze. They walk through the place, not seeming to care about being trapped in that space for the rest of their lives. They talk, scream and murmur carefree. Most of them don’t even bother to look at the crow, and those who do give him a second look simply stare at him for a few seconds and turn their attention away from him.

Even if most of them look defenseless and harmless, that doesn’t stop the crow’s body from tensing up. From feeling a tingling in his nape that aches for him to turn around whenever he gives his back to the shadows. It doesn’t stop his hands from clenching into fists when he passes right past them. That doesn’t stop the crow from feeling _afraid._

Because that’s the thing, this isn’t a maze like any other, no. This labyrinth has irregular walls that don’t match with each other’s. Lights that, like the moon, lend their rays to illuminate the labyrinth, providing a fake feeling of safeness. It has been filled with houses, manors, restaurants, stores and all kinds of buildings like fake gems in a cheap setting. 

It’s a very specific and to a certain point even special type of labyrinth. It’s a kind of maze that the crow has already been through several times, sometimes he’d even managed to escape them. The crow knows every corner and alleyway of these imperfect places, every kind of shadow, every fake gem and every dirty trick that are pulled in those kinds of labyrinths; dirty tricks that even the crow has used at some point.

But, even with all that knowledge, these type of mazes have never failed to confuse the crow. Not a single time.

Most crucially, the crow hated how, after living for so many years in this labyrinth, it had seeped into his skin and was every bit a part of the crow as the scars on his face and body or the blood on his hands that no amount of water could wash away.

The crow walks through the labyrinth until he reaches his destination.

A momentary vertigo assails the crow, a feeling of dizziness that made the labyrinth feel ephemeral, an object that could be pierced by his gaze. The crow looks up, and sees one of the multiple exits of the maze just meters away from him. Because that’s the thing, the crow has already encountered the exit to this labyrinth, yet he won’t try to leave. Because leaving won’t bring him any sort of freedom, because leaving would mean putting more people in danger; people that aren’t at fault that the crow’s wounds and broken wings haven’t killed him yet. 

After all, being trapped in this hellhole, forced to run it through and through for the rest of his days is the crow’s punishment.

That dizziness sensation faded away as soon as it came, and the crow continued on his way. He crosses the meters of a parking lot impassively, without rushing or entertaining himself. His red, wine-colored eyes are focused on the zone ahead, without taking any time to turn to the sideways or to linger aimlessly.

The crow wears a timeworn black jacket with a gray scarf around his neck. The jacket is open, showing a blue shirt in equally bad state. A pair of shattered gray pants and black shoes protect his legs and feet. His hands are covered by a pair of black gloves. The sole of his shoes trample on pieces of cardboard, wood and in snow piles.

His red eyes carefully analyze the place he’s in. His sand-colored hair, combed in a ponytail, undulates with the direction of the wind. A thick, brown beard hides most of his facial expressions. In his left cheek there’s a scar in a right angle, and another shares part in the right side of the crow’s forehead and part in his temple, taking the form of a curve.

A hard gale blows in the direction of the crow, raising an irritating dust cloud.The air boosted by the gale is suffocating, raising a smell of soot and rotten garbage. 

Across the parking lot, men and women, dressed in dirty and tattered clothes, with their faces covered in ollin and their hairs greasy and messy are all over the lot, walk in meaningless way. Some of them sleep in dusty covers. Some, lying in the floor as they seek to warm themselves up with cheap and murky blankets, shake cups with a few coins inside, making a clicking noise, begging for a few yen.

Others, using trash cans filled with garbage, create fires in desperates attempts of bringing warmth to the place. The flames giving birth to fine, vertical smoke lines.

Despite the place being mostly closed off and having a roof, there are still openings where the snow from outside sneaks inside the place, creating the snow piles. That isn’t a surprise, considering how it’s winter time.

He’s in a parking lot. At least what used to be.

A place for homeless men. Outsiders whose society failed. Killers and criminals, forced to hide from the shadows and their own demons. Kids whose mother failed at giving them a good life, and didn’t had a supernatural app to get them out of their misery. Or maybe, just maybe, pieces of shit who lost everything they hold dearly because of them. Scum whose ego got the best of them, bringing them a well-deserved fallout.

It’s a desolate and bleak and cold place. Filled with lost dreams. And yet, the crow feels strangely at home.

But this isn’t the crow’s home, for more that it feels like it. These clothes aren’t his and he doesn’t really know any of these people. He’s here because someone wants him to be there, someone needs the crow to pay an unexpected social call to a person he’d only seen from afar. And this is the best way for him to do it.

The crow’s disguise makes him blend in perfectly with the rest of the people, and stops when he reaches to the front end of the parking lot, where a wall dictates the end of the zone.

The parking lot leads to a narrow esplanade ending on a small back alley. The crow’s second destination.

The crow crosses the path and arrives at the back alley, which, fortunately, is completely deserted. The alleyway is a tight passage where meager houses and apartments are mixed together and forced to be with each other. A small lot that was poorly designed and concocted together, but that same cheap job is what makes this houses and apartments so economical to live in, replete with people that are just a bit luckier than the homeless people.

Unlike the parking lot, this back alley has nothing to be protected, so snowflakes fall lazily to the dirty ground, forming scant cumulus of snow. Moving towards the dead end of the pathway, the crow encounters his ultimate destination: a little house with brick walls, along with a black door that includes the number seven forced written on the wood, probably with a knife. Lurking through his jeans pocket, the crow grabs a key out of it.

Taking one last look around the site, the crow unlocks the door marked with seven, and opens it. This isn’t his house, and the keys are a copy, but that isn’t a problem. He’d scoped this place before, knows it well and is certain of what to do.

The door creaks open. And, for a fraction of second, he sees a silver hall, so long that it looks almost eternal. For a moment, the crow thinks that he’s younger than he really is, he watches as his jacket and gloves are painted brown, and thinks that his destination isn’t a small house, but an interrogation room.

The crow blinks. Once, twice, thrice, until that eternal silver hall disappears, replaced with a slender hall with walls of brick. Relaxing his hands, the crow forces himself to keep a straight and unbothered face. And, while he succeeds fantastically well, he still has to bite the inside of his cheeks in order to keep any sort of noise to come out of his mouth.

The crow enters the house, locking the door behind him. 

The hall, so narrow that the crow can extend his arms to the sides and the palm of his hands would firmly touch each wall, contains an empty nightstand. As the crow abandons the corridor, the floor sinks under his shoes sole. A strong smell of dirt and spoiled food fills the crow’s nostrils.

Leaving the hall behind, he enters a little kitchen mixed with a living room. The entire house is plunged in darkness, yet he doesn’t bother to turn on the lights. At the bottom of the room, there’s a shelf divided in two sections: the bottom one with a puny stove and the top one with just a few plates, glasses, spoons and forks. A kitchen sink is accommodated by the side of the shelf, with a white refrigerator next to it that’s even shorter than the kitchen sink.

The corners of the ceiling have been captured by spider web spun. The spiders, all over the different webs, stay still in a shot to survive. A few roaches hide under the shelf and refrigerator when they hear the crow’s footsteps. Even the crow feels somewhat hypnotized when he sees a group of ants go from the kitchen sink to a hole they caved in a corner of the room, watching them closely till they disappeared inside their void.

The wood in the floor has been eaten away by moths, provoking for some parts have even taken off the ground, showing the gray cement underneath the floor. The crow passes two of his gloved fingers through the walls, producing dust and powder to from the bricks and the cement in the walls to crash faintly to the ground.

By the crow’s left side, centimeters away from him, there’s a table with a gray couch in the other side. Behind the couch, there’s a windowsill with the magnificent view of yet another back alley with tons of garbage cans. A plant that the crow doesn’t recognize rests in the windowsill ledge, receiving no sort of sunlight to keep on living.

Reaching the end of the house, there’s a corridor with a black door at the end of it. The crow heads toward the corridor drowned in darkness. Heh, if he’s lucky enough, he might actually find what he’s looking for.

In the passageway, there is one door in each side. In each door the crow finds a bathroom covered in filth and a bedroom with a little bed and a little closet with an alarmingly low quantity of clothes. That’s it. No television, no shelves, no nothing. Just a bed with a closet. Hell, not even a dusty and forgotten gun threw around the room. Was the person the crow was looking for really this laid back and plain stupid? This might be easier to do than the crow anticipated.

Abandoning the bedroom, he heads to the black door. Opening it, the crow meets again with the chilling and rage-full wind. Snowflakes fall on his face and clothes. In the other side, a tenuous courtyard greets the crow. Mostly empty, there’s, surprisingly, a garden, probably taken care of by the person the crow’s looking for.

The land of the courtyard has been divided in the gray cement floor, and a the other side’s filled with soil for plants. Small shelves hold potted plants. In a table, there’s a bottle with water, a few jars with nutrients for plants and a shovel.

It fills the place with a fresh, clean scent, a smell that almost makes that rotten smell disappear, almost. It’s kind of amazing that such a beautiful garden could’ve been done in a place like _this._ A cloud of heaven between the infernal waters of this private hell.

The crow sighs. He leaves the garden and heads back to the living room-kitchen. He takes a look at the hour in his broken watch, time for step two.

Moving away the table by the windowsill, he seats in the couch, and waits for the person he’s looking for. After all, he has all the time in the world, doesn’t he?

The crow doesn’t have to wait much. Just a few minutes later, the door is unlocked once again, and the true owner of the house enters.

A clicking sound, that the crow descifrates as the person leaving something in the nightstand (probably his keys, the true keys to the house, not the copies the crow used), resonates throughout the house.

The person enters the enters room, unaware of the crow’s presence. The man is giant, probably ten inches taller than the crow, and his biceps are the size of the crow’s head. Wearing a crummy and covered in grime denim overall that hides a skin-right red shirt underneath; the man carries a white bag in his hand, and takes a pack of frozen meat out of it. Lighting the stove, he puts one of the pieces of meat in the hot plate and awaits for the food to get cooked. All of this without realizing that there’s a stranger, a crow, in a corner of his house.

“I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty,” the crow finally says. His voice is a hoarse whisper that carries his words softly. “I did my best to keep the dirt and the dust outside.”

The man freezes in his stead. His hands clenched into fists and a gasp escapes his lips. The crow sees the man’s body get tense, probably trying to find a way to get out of this situation, maybe thinking in grabbing one of his knifes and sprint towards the crow hoping to catch him off guard and then bury it in his throat, a chance in a million. Eventually, the man gives up. Perhaps knowing that being reckless won’t get him anywhere. His fists slowly unravel, dutifully and firmly in the table now. Although, his shoulders remain tense.

“I don’t mind the dirt.” The man answers. His voice is calm, hollow and deep. But there’s something darker hidden under his breath, his calm words break at times, wavering between the short sentence. Like he’s about to break, his rage and fear for survival too powerful to be controlled. Like being forced to hear the constant _tic tacs_ of a time bomb.

The crow squawks. “Yeah, I can see that- -”

“What I do mind,” the man interrupts the crow, and there it is again, a voice that sounds at it’s limit, a desperate attempt to hide the beast within himself. A monster that’s screaming and howling to be set free. “Are unexpected social calls. Who’re you? Funny enough, but you don’t have the looks of a cop.”

The man turns around, showing his face. His skin is flamed. A pair of blue eyes - whom life has been sucked off entirely, leaving just the ghosts that wander in the man’s iris - stare at the crow. His hair is uneven, with strands of gray hair around his head.

“Hmph. My answer depends, actually. Are you Suzuki Amida? Fifty-five years old, former yakuza in the Sanae family?”

Suzuki stares at the crow, his soulless eyes analyze the crow entirely, a savage animal about to attack its prey. “I just work at a factory. Neon Wolves Industries, have you heard of it?”

“Yes, I know that. That’s what most interesting for me, Suzuki-san. Why work as an employee in a factory that barely helps you to live day to day? Why, when you had everything with the Sanae family?”

Suzuki laughs, sounding more like a bark coming from a rabid dog. In his lips, an unpleasant and painful smile coils. “Well, you sure did your homework. I’ve told you the truth, so, now that I’m gonna ask you this, I really hope that you answer honestly: Who are you? You Sanae family’s cleaner? Or just a hitman they hired to get the job done? The Okami Clan have never been the ones to get their hands dirty.”

“Who I am doesn’t matter, Suzuki-san. I’m here because you are in possession of something that doesn’t belong to you, something you stole. I’m just the one they send to retrieve it so I can give it back to it’s true owner. And, if we’re past the childish games, I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do. But, if I give it to you all you’re gonna do is kill me here and now, or take me to Sanae so he can personally dispose of me. I know your kind, and I know how the Okami Clan operates. So, why should I give it to you?”

“It wasn’t a request.” The crow answers, matter-of-factly. His voice remains emotionless. His face lingers, serene and stoic.

“Do you have a gun, sir?” Suzuki asks.

_Alright, this is enough._

The crow, tired of speaking with Suzuki in a roundabout way, stands up. Moving the table in front of him, he walks approaching Suzuki. “I won’t need a gun as long as you play nice, Suzuki-san. Now, if you could- -”

The next happened way too quickly for the crow’s perception.

The crow stops talking when he sees Suzuki sneaking his hand in his overall’s pocket. He opens his mouth, as he tries to sprint towards Suzuki to stop him, but is already too late. The crow sees a brown knife handle. The quiet yet sharp noise of the knife cutting through the air can be softly heard in his ears. His eyes divise a silver blur in the air, facing against his eyes.

In a flash, the crow is about to let the knife bury itself in his forehead. Hell, he almost wishes for it to happen. However, murmurs from ghosts break into his ears. Demons that the crow can hear whispering to him during the night.

_Dude, you’re more than special._

_No! Because he’s your father!_

_And… you don’t really hate Joker, do you?_

_I promise._

_I promise._

_I promise._

No. Not yet.

The crow’s eyes widen. His arms and hands act unwittingly, stopping Suzuki’s fists mid-flight. Most likely because he was too slow at the moment of attacking with the knife, which is a good thing. Sure, Suzuki may be strong, but so many years on the run and working on a factory have slow him down, making his fighting style as rusty and dusty as the house’s state.

As he struggles with Suzuki to get the knife off his hands, the crow momentarily meets with his eyes and sees pure and vicious inhumanity in them. A ruthless, wild thirst for survival has taken over Suzuki. The beast he was trying so hard to contain during their prior conversation is finally out.

With his hands solidly placed over Suzuki’s knuckles, the crow retires one of his hands covering the knife to the left and, immediately, punches him in his wrist with it.

Suzuki’s hand contracts and the knife falls off his hand, descending to the ground with an almost inaudible jingling sound.

A mistake, since Suzuki takes advantage of the crow’s momentarily distracted state to punch him in his his left cheekbone. Nonetheless, the crow’s adrenaline, making his blood pump furiously through his veins, caused the hit to be barely felt, like being slapped by a toddler.

With deadly indifference, the crow sees his sight get filled with black dots. He savors the metal taste of his blood inside his mouth like he’s outside of his body, forced to watch himself fighting, groaning and struggling.

While the crow is busy staggering, Suzuki grabs him by his gray scarf, ripping it off his neck. Using his foot, Asaki kicks the crow in his ankle, causing for the the crow to get knocked off his balance, consequently falling violently to the ground. Underneath him, the rotten wood from the floor breaks under his weight.

With his sight still a blur, the crow has a few seconds to see a mop that resembles Suzuki's shoe sole. Moving hastily his body to the right, he barely escapes Suzuki’s attempted kick to his face.

The crow tries to get up, just to feel Suzuki’s firm grip on his shoulder pulling him back down. Planting himself over the crow; Suzuki, with the gray scarf still on his hands, attacks the crow head on, mainly trying to get the scarf dangerously close to the crow’s neck.

As he strifes against Suzuki’s hands, the crow realizes that Suzuki is trying to choke the life out of him with his own scarf.

 _Think._ The crow needs to think. He tries to punch him in the face, but his arms can’t reach Suzuki’s cheeks. Using his knee, the crow aims to kick Suzuki in his crotch and, before he passes out, he centers all of his remaining forces in kicking Suzuki in his crotch. With a keen scream, the old man lets go off the crow. Grabbing him by one of the overall straps, the crow pulls Suzuki closer, hitting his nose against his forehead. As he lets go, the crow feels the bridge of Suzuki’s nose breaking under his forehead.

The roles are now inverted. Dripping blood that’s not his, the crow tosses the scarf aside and grabs Suzuki from the collar of his shirt, proceeding to smash his fist against Suzuki’s throat, right in his Adam apple. And again, and again, and again. As he prepares to direct his fist against his neck once more, the crow feels something burying itself inside his ribs, causing a sharp burst of pain. 

Grumbling, feeling like he’s about to faint and with a consistent pain in his left cheekbone and right side, the crow punches Suzuki one last time. This second, right against his nose, now turned into a bloody bulb. With a gasp, Suzuki stays down, suffocated and desperately trying to get air back into his lungs by sucking air between his teeth. The old man tries to get back up, to fight for his survival again, but it’s over. Suzuki collapses, unable to even move his body anymore, his arms extended like a cross and blood dripping from his nostrils to his chin and down to his collarbone. The fight is over.

Gasping, the crow picks up his feet and moves away from the defeated Suzuki, staggering his way until he’s safely distanced from Suzuki.

With the fight won, the adrenaline in the crow’s body dies down, blood’s pumping normally again and his brain goes back to functioning as normal as the brain of a person like the crow can do. But, while the adrenaline dies, the crow’s wounds sting and burn, reclaiming his attention. A headache begins to form in the crow’s temples. Taking a look at his right side, the crow sees the pocket knife Suzuki tried to attack him with buried in it. The bastard slashed him with it during the fight, that’s the sharp pain he felt. With his gloved hand, the crow removes the knife from him, the cut not deep since the blade is quite short on its own. The crows throws the knife to the back of the room, far away from both of them.

Searching inside his jacket, the crow takes a black handgun out of it. A silenced pistol that he aims at Suzuki’s lying body.

“Now… if we’ve… stopped playing child games… I would really appreciate if we could continue this where we left it… Suzuki-san.” The crow says, having a hard time recovering his breath.

But Suzuki, with that same sarcastic bark, begins a struggle to get up.

“Please, don’t get up.” This isn’t an order, is a _plea_.

“You… how old are you, kid? Doing these kind of things? Want my advice…? Just leave. I had that chance, even if I always knew that my past would catch up to me at some point. Yeah… at the end, I tried to live under my own rules,”

Oh, doesn’t that sound great.

Suzuki stands up, and the crow’s aim follows his forehead ferociously. “And if this is my last night on earth… then so be it.”

With a howl, a scream of war, Suzuki sprints against the crow at full force. With a lump in his throat, the crow pulls the trigger.

_Bang! Bang!_

Unceremoniously, like he just tripped, Suzuki collapses to the ground. His dead freight rambles through the house. The bullets penetrate his skull, and the walls get painted red.

In the stove, the meat Asaki put in the hot plate was still slow burning, not fully cooked yet. The fight lasted most likely less than three minutes, but if sure as hell felt longer for the crow.

The situation had changed drastically. The crow was prepared for these kind of situations, and knew what to do. But he had to do it fast.

He needed to find the bullets he fired. Suzuki was close enough when the crow shoot, the bullets should’ve been able to penetrate and go over his skull. And like he says does, since he finds them not too far from the old man’s body. Seizing them, the crow flushes them down the toilet. Considering what he has to do, he can’t have the police investigating this place, finding the bullets and suggesting foul play. That’s the last thing the crow wants.

Getting that done, the crow still needs to find what he came for, the reason why he was so patient with Suzuki, and going back empty handed was not an option.

The crow searches Suzuki’s pockets and finds them empty. In the night stand, he takes his wallet, with just a few bills and coins… and a photo. The picture looks like it was taken recently. Suzuki, who looks drastically different from the man he encountered, smiled shyly at the camera with two women on each side, one of them seemed pregnant. Three other men and a little kid seated in order. In the other side of the photo, there’s a date written on it: 11.5.89.

11.5.89. What could it be? Definitely not the date the photo was taken, since it looked quite recent. It could’ve been a clue, something to lead the crow to what he was looking for, but there wasn’t anything in the house like a safebox, and it didn’t looked like coordinates neither. With a sigh, the crow guarded the photo in his back pocket.

Grasping a phone with the screen broken and an inflated battery, the crow thought that he could find a clue in it, just to find it locked. Trying several combinations of numbers, even the date in the back of the photo he found, the crow couldn’t descifrate the password. Heh, maybe he should’ve give the old man more credit.

No phone to find leads, and the picture was a dead end. The crow needed to get creative. The thing was material, long enough to have to be hidden inside the house. But where? Underneath the floor? No, it couldn’t have fit in there. And then, as he a analyzes the entire place, the crow finds his lead. _The garden._

Rushing over to the black door, he enters the garden. The potted plants are way too narrow and small to fit what he’s looking for, so the soil ground is the only chance. Grabbing the shovel from the courtyard, the crow digs and digs into he feels something solid blocking the shovel’s way. With his gloves hands, the crow picks a wooden box that was buried underneath the ground. However, since the ground wasn’t too deep, it didn’t took long for him to find it. Did Suzuki put the box buried in the ground so, if someone ever came looking for it they would have a hard time at doing so? Probably. But the crow will never know for sure.

The box, which manage to survive the erosion of the ground with just a couple of dirt and mud spots, gets settled inside the crow’s jacket. Now that's out of the way, there’s only one more thing that the crow has to do before leaving.

Grabbing Suzuki’s body from the collar of his shirt, the crow drags him to the still-turned on stove, where the meat is now fully cooked, and puts Suzuki’s back against it. As he heads to the courtyard, the crow turns the lights of the living room, bathroom and bedroom on. Inside the courtyard, the crow arrives at the gas tanks, a pair of portable cylinders, and, using the tanks’ hose, he lets the gas fill the apartment slowly.

With both his handgun and the wooden box hidden underneath his jacket, the crow leaves the apartment in a dash, going back to the parking lot.

By the time the gas reaches the spotlights and the stove where Suzuki’s body rests, immediately exploding, burning the house and causing Amida Suzuki’s body to blow up into little pieces, the crow is already far too gone.

  
  


**_________**

The crow is used to all this.

The luxurious halls, the expensive furniture. It doesn’t surprise him anymore, and he doubts it ever has.

The crow moves up through floors and floors of the same bullshit. Men wearing expensive and tailored suits, a suffocating smell to whiskey and smoke filling the air. Some of them talk to the crow, yelling at him passive-aggressive regards. Others, plain and simply, mock him. But the crow doesn’t care, he keeps on walking without even batting an eye at them. He hates this place, it makes him sick, but then again, the crow really doubts that there’s any place in the world he really likes.

All these combinations of things give a pretty good measure at how life is inside a yakuza clan headquarters.

His shabby disguise of a homeless man he used in the parking lot is long gone, replaced with a made-to-measure black suit and a white shirt.

After leaving the lot, the crow got into a car specifically left for him a few blocks away, drove till he arrived at a car wash that he really doubts has the sole purpose of washing cars, and all he had to do was press the horn once before the workers at the place let him in, where the crow changed into his actual clothes. Abandoning the ride behind just to get into another. The handgun and the box remain tightly pressed against his chest inside the suit’s pockets.

Now, the crow walks through the infernal halls of the Okami Clan headquarters. His sight focused and his face, even with a bruise and dry blood painted on it, remains indomitable. Just a mask the crow has grown to perfect.

Entering the top of the manor, the crow lands in a hall, where he’s met with two yakuzas guarding the door.

“Hey, hey, hey, buddy. Whatcha doing here, you can’t just come in here like it’s your friggin house,” says one of them. Both yakuzas walk dangerously close to the crow, a big grin on their faces, a menacing sign to which the crow finds nothing menacing about.

“I need to talk with Lieutenant Sanae. It’s urgent.” The crow answers.

“What for?”

The crow shrugs. “None of your business.”

“Okay, listen here, you little shit, just because you’re Lieutenant Sanae’s favorite pet doesn’t give you the right to- -”

“Let him in!” Behind the door, the crow hears a muffled voice he recognizes a little too well, a voice that’s able to send a chill down his spine, a voice he wishes he would’ve never heard.

Huffing, the yakuza opens the door for the crow, letting him in. The room inside, better known as Sanae’s office, is big and spacious. A wax and well-kept desk is accommodated at the bottom of the room, with a window behind it that gives a beautiful sight of the nocturnal life outside. The office is clean and it smells good. The complete opposite of Suzuki’s house.

In the office, sitting between the desk and the window, Sanae lies. A king in his throne. He wears a brown suit, and has little, gray hair in his head. Under his mustache, a sarcastic grin that gets on the crow’s nerves curls.

“Ah, Majima-chan! Good to see you back in one piece. You two, go. My friend and I have some catching up to do.”

Once the yakuzas are gone, Sanae pulls a pack of cigarettes from his suit-pocket and puts one between his lips, letting it hang lazily. The crow doesn’t need more signs to understand. Rushing over, he grabs the lighter in Sanae’s desk and lights the cigarette. With a quick nod of gratitude, Sanae takes a long drag.

“So, Majima-chan, tell me. How did it go?”

The crow throws at Sanae the wooden box, the picture he found and Suzuki’s phone with little respect. “There was nothing else worth taking besides these.”

The moment Sanae’s eyes are fixed at the three objects located in his desk, his burlesque expression disappears for a bit as he stares at them. The crow wants to ask just why the hell is Suzuki and that wooden box so important, but he knows better than to ask. Sanae, in his part, just shrugs it off, putting the box and the other things under the table like his mask didn’t just slipped for a moment, revealing his true self.

Analyzing the crow’s face, Sanae arches an eyebrow. “For what I can see, good ol’ Suzuki didn’t took your visit too well. You sure you didn’t leave any traces behind? The cops are a puny pest, but I’m better off without those rats being a pain in my ass… for a while.”

“I got rid of everything. The bullets are gone. I let the gas from his gas tanks flow through the house, the whole goddamn place is now burning in flames. if the cops investigate all they’re gonna say is that there was a gas fugue. I made sure that Suzuki’s body wasn’t up to being investigated by forensics. There’s no way the police is going to think it was foul play. That satisfies you, or is it not up to your standards?”

“Nah, that’ll do it. Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t you have something that belongs to me, Majima-chan?”

Understanding the cue, the crow takes a hand inside his jacket. Grabbing the silenced pistol, he hands it over to Sanae. With a thoughtful nod, Sanae hides the gun inside his coat.

“Heh, good job kid,” lurking underneath his desk, Sanae grabs a briefcase from it, bringing it over the table. “Here’s your reward. Go get that bruise patched up. I’ll be around, sooner than you expect it, boyo.”

A threat. The crow knows Sanae well enough to understand the subtext under the sentence. As he walks to the door, with the only wish of getting the hell out of here as quick as he can, Sanae calls for the crow’s name.

“Majima-chan, wait up,” the crow turns around. “Ya sure you don’t wanna know how you’re old pals are doing? It’s been long since the last time you ask about them.”

The crow freezes in his stance. Trying to keep himself composed, he says: “I’m afraid I need to get home, Sanae.”

“Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that. What’s the hurry? It’s like I told ya, just help me out with our little secret and then you and your friends will be free to go. How hard can that be? ‘Sides, don’t lie to me, we’ve had some good times.”

“Oh yeah?” The crow is _sick_ of this. He had to keep it together when he was Shido’s lapdog, but not anymore, not with someone like Sanae. “Because, from what I’ve seen, you’ve already accomplished your goal, with profit. I’m starting to believe that you lied, Sanae.”

“You know? Maybe you’re right, maybe I did lie. Maybe I ain’t letting you off the hook, ever. But what’re you gonna do about it? You know how bad it looks when a dog bites his owner in this kind of world, don’t you?”

The crow doesn’t think, he doesn’t even bother to think. Dropping the suitcase, he dashed over to Sanae, hands clutched into fists, and he’s about to punch Sanae right in the face when his fist stops merely inches away from his face.

Sanae, in his part, doesn’t even flinch. He even takes a drag from his cigarette. “C’mon, go ahead, hit me. All I have to do is pay a visit to… what’s his name? Kurusu? Well, to Kurusu-san. Do you think he’ll reciprocate all these years of protection? Or will he rather protect his friends? Y’know, his actual friends, the ones who didn’t betray him and tried to put a bullet between his eyes. Who do you think he’ll choose, Majima-chan? I can say the same about Niijima, or Sakamoto, or Okumura or… well, you already know them.”

The crow snorts, his whole body is trembling. “ _Fuck you.”_

Sanae laughs. An strident laugh that’s enough to send a raw, almost electric reaction through the crow’s body. “Oh, don’t be like that. I’m only doing my job. If you and your little pals hadn’t been so stupid to think that y’all could’ve pulled out all that shit and get away with it it’s not my fault. Besides, who’s better to pay for everyone else’s sins but you, huh? So, hit me, let’s see how that goes down.”

Breathing furiously, the crow violently takes his fist off Sanae’s face with a grumble.

“That a boy. Now, take the money and leave, I’ll ring you up if I need your services.”

Forcing himself to breathe as steadily as he can, the crow picks the suitcase up, and thinks that he’s ready to leave when Sanae stops him again.

“Ah, and remember, I own you, Akechi Goro.”

The crow— _Akechi Goro_ feels his blood run cold. That name, god, it felt like kissing something antique. And, at the same time, it made Goro want to vomit. Biting his tongue so hard that he has to swallow down the blood, Goro bows at Saena, leaving as quick as he can.

As he makes his way down the manor, Goro holds tightly to the suitcase with both hands, trying to stop the shaking in them.

**  
_________**

Nights are now, mostly, calm and quiet.

And by mostly Goro means that, to get those serene and smooth nights he still needs to make his way through the hellish nightlife of the maze.

The labyrinth he’s in, better known as Kobe City, located in the Hyogo prefecture, has an equally vivid nightlife from the Tokyo one, where he used to live in.

The vulgar and tasteless neon lights coming from clubs and casinos located around town smile lasciviously at the crow, inviting him in. Loud songs sound somewhat clear through these establishments. Across the streets, different street fights and brawls between drunkards gather crowds all over town. Other people, just a little bit less wasted than the drunkards, stumble their way, probably back home. Taxi drivers, being the most useful recourse for tipsy fellows in the city, press their horns devilishly, demanding for the traffic to miraculously stop. Group of girls giggle as they throw themselves, running, into the on-going traffic, taking a gamble of crossing the street. The cold weather and the snowflakes being just a small inconvenient for the ones who want to have a good night, or have a death wish.

It’s way too similar to Tokyo in all the bad ways.

Probably Goro’s fault, since he was the one to take a ’job’ in a Friday night.

Driving, Goro heads back to the… well, to the second closest thing he has to call home. His hands, now gloveless, touch the wheel softly.

Passing Port City, Goro arrives at Nankin-machi, also known as the Chinatown of Kobe and Akechi’s neighborhood. Riding, Goro arrived at an apartment complex, the biggest in the area. Divided into the apartment section and a warehouse that works as a parking lot next to it. His ‘home’, at least in a material sort of way. Quickly regarding the security guard watching the warehouse, Goro drives inside and parks his car, his own vehicle.

Now, there’s a thing that Goro has kept to himself: he likes cars, in fact, he loves them.

When he was a child, Goro’s mother; Ichika Akechi, would take him at times to the downtown area of Tokyo for 'business meetings', as he waited for his mother to stop talking with his client, Goro would stare in awe at all the fancy cars that the rich businessmen in the zone would drive, thinking how it would feel to drive those beasts.

Sometimes, Goro would read worn and tattered magazines specialized on cars -with torn pages and specks of whatever the fuck those magazines got stained with - and talked to his mother about the cars and how cool they were.

“Look, mom,” Goro said, laying on their rusty bed, doing his best to try and cuddle with his mother, but she always rejected any sign of affection. “This is a 1990 Cadillac Brougham, do you see it, ma? When I grow up, I’m gonna save money and I’m gonna buy this car! I’ll even take you on rides, wherever you want to go, I’ll take you! We could even take that trip to the beach I told you about. That sounds cool, right ma?”

That obviously never happened. Goro never got that 1990 Cadillac Brougham and he and his mother never took that trip.

And that wasn’t because Goro suddenly stopped liking cars, he still secretly loves them. It was finding out that Shido loved cars too - specially old ones - what made Goro ashamed of his little hobby, and what made him decide to keep it to himself. Stupid? Yeah. But it’s not like Goro isn’t anything else but a really, really stupid person.

Shido’s own love for cars extended to even having a collection of old, collection cars. From Mustangs to Jaguars to Mercedes.

It was thanks to that collection of cars that Goro got his car, the one his driving now; a 1967 Ford Mustang Fastback that he stole from Shido after his change of heart but prior to his arrest, and Goro has learned to take care of it and even love it for nine years.

The eighteen year old Akechi thought that by stealing that Ford Mustang - which, by the way, was Shido’s favorite car - he would be spitting one last time on Shido’s legacy, and it took Goro quite some time to realize just how petty, stupid and childish that was.

But, after all, that was how Goro’s relationship with Shido was, just moment after moment of Goro being petty, stupid and childish.

But hey, at least he got the car, right?

Goro stole that car when he was stupid enough to think that he could escape, blindly believing that he still got a chance of beginning again, even after everything he did. When the vehicle meant liberty.

What a fool Goro was. Thinking that infiltrating Shido’s ranks, becoming his attack dog, would give him the revenge he wanted. If he’d only used his brain for once, of he’d only bother to think in someone else besides himself, then maybe things would’ve been different. 

But there was no use in thinking that way, no use in what ifs. There he was, his current life was his present, the reality gained by his own acts. And where did those actions got him? Being trapped inside this fucking maze. A prisoner of his own life and choices. A shadow of his former self.

Goro uses the stairs in the lot that lead him to the inside of the apartment building. He could use the elevators that would take him directly to the corridor where his apartment is located. But doing so means being laid-back, letting the guard down. And, if there was one thing that being in the decaying shell that this line of business is has taught him, its to never his guard down, to never take the easy way out.

This world have taught him to await the metallic sensation of the barrel of a gun, embalming itself in the back of his skull. To anticipate a red laser appearing through the window, pointing directly to Goro, right between his eyes. He’s learned to be aware of the possibility of having his own personal crow, waiting for him in the corner of his apartment. Educated to stick and move and to keep his knives sharp. Trained to stay between the lines; to avoid death, cheat it as many times as he can. 

Once reaching the building’s lobby, the apartment complex loses all its glory and personality. With that same brownish color and royal feeling that every expensive and renown building has. Fancy couches made out leather, restaurants and cafes in the lobby area of the lot. Employees sprinting from side to side, with their payments on the line if they don’t provide a top-notch customer service. A strong smell of vanilla makes Goro a bit giddy and chandeliers illuminate the place beautifully. Just like the Okami Clan Headquarters, it’s just another dull and uninspired show of wealth. 

Heh, it’s kinda funny, actually. As a kid, Goro could only dream of being in a place like that, his child-self would be mortified to know that, ultimately, he’ll get sick of all those ’perfect’ places.

With silver briefcase in hand, Goro walks floor after floor till he arrives at his apartment that, surprise surprise, is just as heartless as the rest of the building.

Goro lets out a heavy sigh, dropping the suitcase in the nightstand by his bed, he opens it just to find it stacked with money. Bundles of yen organized inside. With that done, Akechi wobbles his way inside the bathroom. Taking the coldest water he can get, Goro takes a steamy shower, doing his best to avoid looking as his scars around his body or the tattoo that takes most of his back’s space. 

After that, with a towel around his waist, Goro collapses in the toilet. The exhaustion he was holding in from his fight with Suzuki finally out. Inhaling and then exhaling, Goro forces his body to stand up. He opens the first-aid kit by the side of the sink. Grabbing a few things he knows by memory that he needs, Akechi lies down in the toilet again, trying to patch up his wounds.

Using soap and water in the wound in his right side and the bruise in his left cheekbone, Goro applies an antibiotic cream in the bruise and stitches himself up in the area where Suzuki slashed him. Amidst grunts and sobs, Akechi cleans his hits, implementing two in white bandages in order to keep his injures dry and clean. One on his cheek and the other by the side of his stomach.

_You… how old are you, kid? Doing these kind of things?_

Goro shakes his head. He can’t think about Suzuki, it’s a luxury he can’t afford. And yet, for more than he tries to get Suzuki’s last words out of his face, the more they get repeated in his mind, like a broken mantra, a sinister lullaby.

_Yeah… at the end, I tried to live by own rules._

Throat locked, whole body shivering and with watery eyes, Goro leaves the bathroom. In a hurry, he catches a pack of cigarettes between his hand and heads to the short balcony outside. The back of the building has a section of balconies, available for anyone who’s able to afford an apartment here. In the middle of the wintry night, just a few more people in the other balconies. Goro rolls a cigarette.

Taking a long, deep drag, he exhales, watching cooly as the smoke flies up to the sky, fading away slowly. With the cigarette between his knuckles, Goro takes a look at the street below him, and that’s where he founds _them._ Yeah, them. How could Goro forget about them?

Beneath him, Akechi sees a black Chevrolet parked in the sidewalk, a vehicle he’s seen at night for the last five years. Under the different street lights across the street, Akechi founds distinctive men dressed in black, their eyes locked on Goro, the light from the street lights illuminating them dimly. A pair of riders in motorcycles drive surrounding the building.

These people are Goro’s watchmen. His guardian angels, in a sick and twisted way. Yakuzas sent to keep an eye in Goro, to make sure that the bird doesn’t try to break free from his cage. But, Goro has the theory that Sanae doesn’t ordered them to look out for Goro, but just that, at least. This obvious and clumsy? No, there was no way this could be yakuza work at its finest. Goro could see them because Sanae wanted him to see them, this was his way of spitting in Goro’s eye even when he's not there.

To remind Akechi who he really is. Not a deranged psychopath nor a pleasant boy, but something much worse: a broken _kid._ Someone who flew too close to the sun and fell down, wings turned to ashes. An _‘I see you’_ in its pure form. A reminder that Goro is chained to this maze, a ghost cursed to wander around, with death not even an option.

It’s like Kurusu said: there are fates worse than death.

With a sigh, Goro kills the cigarette in his ashtray, greets a silent ‘good night’ to his watchmen and goes back inside.

Setting an alarm for tomorrow, Goro turns the lights in his apartment off, and proceeds to sleep. Allowing the demons who haunt him in his nightmares to calmly wrap him up in a daze.

**_________**

Morning hit Goro like a ton of bricks.

With a few remaining traces of his headache slightly pricking his head, an inflamed throat and a stinging pain aching in his head and torso, Akechi was awaken by the screeching sound of his alarm going off and the ringing of his phone. Cursing under his breath, Goro turned off his alarm and picked up the call in his phone without checking who was calling.

“Hello?” Goro’s gruffly voice asks.

“ _Majima-san? Oh, thank god you’ve picked up. I’ve been calling you for half an hour!”_ in the other side of the line, a voice that Goro recognized as his partner, Sumire Yoshizawa, answered.

Flickering, Goro turned on the light by his bedside, his eyes, lazily, got used to the light. _Goddammit, did I overslept again?_ Goro thinks. Nonetheless, the hour in his phone dictated 9:45 in the morning. He did overslept, but he was still at time to leave, considering the agency opened at 10 o’clock.

“Yoshizawa-san,” Goro said nonchalantly. Doing his best to sound fully awake. “It’s still not ten, I should be the one asking you why are you so worried for me. I don’t think you like this job enough to wanna work early.”

 _“It’s not that!”_ Yoshizawa insisted, _“we have a client!”_

Goro arched his eyebrows. “A client? Already?”

_“Yes! Takao-san received multiple calls from the same person, saying that he needed to speak with the detectives right away. She couldn’t even tell her that we were not open yet when she had her knocking in the doors of our office already. Poor Takao-san called both of us to come help her. I’m here already, but she will only speak when she has both private eyes here.”_

Goro sighed. Stubborn and rude employers were always a piece of work. After this, he was going to have to give Takao a raise.

“Alright, I’m on my way. Can you keep her busy while I get there?”

_“Sure. Good. And… good morning, Majima-san!”_

If Yoshizawa was here to say that to Goro’s face, he would groan and mutter a good morning back at her and then get on without making any unnecessary conversation. But, with him alone in his apartment and no one watching - at least he hopes that - he takes the liberty of smiling widely.

“Good morning, Yoshizawa-san, I’ll see you there.” He hangs up.

**________**

Attired in a brown trench coat, a white shirt tucked with a black tie around his collar, a pair of dressing black pants combined with black shoes and brown gloves made out of leather protecting his hands, Goro stops his car in the sidewalk of one of the main avenues in the area of Motomachi.

Leaving his Mustang behind, Goro encounters head on a local in the middle of the street. In the facade, the local consists of just one door of glass, almost completely missable of you don’t squint well enough. In the middle of the door, painted in gold letters, Akechi reads:

**MAJIMA & YOSHIZAWA**

**DETECTIVE AGENCY**

The detective agency, better known as the closest thing that Goro can refer to as home, even before his apartment. Specially since his real home - a warm café that smells to curry and cat hair - is unable for him to reach, hidden in the backstreets all the way back to Tokyo.

This isn’t his, of course. He didn’t earn this with his sweat and blood. It’s just a local that Sanae got Goro in order to keep his old identity and his business with the organization a secret. Sanae gave it to him three years ago, when Goro finished his training with the Clan, with the office, the luxurious apartment and the fake name of _Majima Hiro._ That was something that Goro has to give to Sanae; the guy’s smart.

Using for once keys that are actually his, Goro unlocks the door and enters the agency. Inside, Goro faces a stiff entranceway. Chairs and couches are contained against the black walls. The royal blue floor leads to a brown counter with an empty chair. Closely to the counter, there’s a door that reads:

**PRIVATE  
INVESTIGATORS**

**MAJIMA HIRO  
** **YOSHIZAWA SUMIRE**

Seeing the empty chair at the rear of the counter, Goro frowns. Where was Takao-san? Did Yoshizawa gave her the day free? Takao was his secretary, specially selected by Sanae to work for him. And, so far, she has been the best secretary that he could’ve asked for. She was efficient and never asked more than she needed to know. Goro didn’t know if she was, somehow, connected to the clan, but he wasn’t going to ask.

Suddenly, the door by Goro’s side creaks open. Cocking his head hastily, Akechi almost expects a gloved hand coming out from the shadows, gun in hand. _Well, well, well. Look who’s here? Thought you could hide forever, detective?_

“Ah, great, you’re finally here. I thought I was going to have to go to your house and drag you out of bed.”

In a flicker, the threatening gloved hand disappears, replaced with a woman staring back at Goro from the door threshold. She wears a purple gabardine that falls swiftly to the floor, a gray vest with a back shirt underneath. And, with red hair that falls freely to her shoulders and a pair of glasses hide her scarlet eyes, Detective Sumire Yoshizawa; Goro’s partner in crime, smiles at him from the door.

Goro’s lips, turned into a fine line, are forced achingly and uneasily into a polite smile. Goro’s pulse gradually calms down, and his lungs work normally again. “Ah, Yoshizawa-san, I hope I didn’t kept you waiting long.” Goro says gently.

“No, don’t worry about. This is really the client’s faul- -” Yoshizawa, out of nowhere, stops talking. Her eyes land in Goro’s cheek, more specifically, in his white bandage. “Jesus Christ, are you okay? Who did this?” Her eyes are wide, and her voice is filled with concern.

Even if he knew that Yoshizawa was going to obviously see the bandage and ask what happened, Goro can’t help but cringe. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Let’s just say that deciding to take a walk in the shopping district of town in a Friday night wasn’t a good idea.”

“Got into a fight?”

“Nah, I wish I could say that. A drunk guy tumbled on me and we both fell to the ground. Once I returned home, a bruise was in my cheek.”

Goro plays with his voice and his emotions, like he has total control over him. He lets out the right amount of fury, allowing a little bit of embarrassment to filter under the anger. Toying with his body, Akechi pretends to fidget with his hands a bit, pretending nervousness. Goro Akechi has always been a good liar.

“Still,” leaning forward, Yoshizawa touched carefully Goro’s face, brushing his fingers delicately against his bandage. “Let me see, I just want to make sure that you applied the bandage correctly, see if you treated it properly or whatnot.”

Yoshizawa’s face is dangerously close to Goro’s, her eyes just inches away from him. Looking at her dead in the eye, Akechi sees her eyes have a bright crimson color, far more colorful than his. God, has her eyes always been this dazzling? Goro feels his lips go dry and he resists the urge of licking them. Yoshizawa is way, way too close.

“Yoshizawa-san, I promise you, I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Yoshizawa asks.

Goro giggles, curling a soft smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

With a nod, Yoshizawa backs down, and Goro catches himself almost missing the closeness.

 _This is for the best._ Goro thinks. And he thinks he’s right. He can’t allow to have Yoshizawa growing closer to him. 

What does he really know about her, really? Goro’s only learnt the basic about her. That she had an older sister that passed away. That, while she has parents, her relationship with them is quite rocky. He’s aware that Yoshizawa graduated with honors from the criminology career back in Tokyo. She spend one year as a beat cop in Tokyo before being transferred to Kobe as a detective. However, by the end of that year, Yoshizawa suddenly quit the force. Goro doesn’t know why, and he won’t pry about it, but that doesn’t stop him from being happy that she managed to get out sooner than later.

She came to him looking for a job just a month ago, and Goro almost said no of it wasn’t for her incredible track record. Yoshizawa has a powerful mind. Hell, at this point, Goro thinks that she’s better at solving mysteries than he is.

And that’s fine, all these information is more than enough for Goro. He can’t know more about her, he can’t allow being his friend.

And why? Well, plain and simple, because Yoshizawa is probably the nicest person Goro’s ever met, and he sincerely hopes he doesn’t poison her like he’s done with everyone that has give two shits about Goro.

Goro is fully aware that, to make sure he doesn’t ruin Yoshizawa’s life, at some point she and him are gonna have to cut ties. Not only because of his nature and who he still is, but also cause, well, Yoshizawa is probably the only genuinely good person he’s ever met in his entire life. And Goro, sooner or later, is going to ruin that, because he’s a venom that poisons people, destroying their lives. It happened with Kurusu, and with the Niijimas, and the Okumuras and the Isshikis and pretty much with every life he’s touched.

And Goro is certain that he won’t poison Yoshizawa too.

It’ll be fine. All Goro has to do is keep Yoshizawa far away from Sanae and from letting her form a friendship with him. As long as he can keep a polite, professional relationship with her, than she’ll be safe.

“Well,” Goro continues the conversation. “Where is Takao, did you gave her the day off?”

Like she’s in a daze, Yoshizawa takes a few seconds before answering. As if someone snapped his fingers in front of her, Yoshizawa comes back to reality blinking furiously. “Oh! Yeah! Yeah, poor thing. She can only handle so much, you know? She seemed pretty shaken up when I got here, so I decided to give her the day off.”

“Oh, good.” Advancing towards the door, Goro squints at it, taking a peak at the silhouette of the person inside their office. “So? Who’s this client? Looks pretty calm for someone who begged to have the private investigators here right away. Anything I need to know?”

“ _Her_ name is Kioko Aiya. And all the fuss she made was apparently to just get us here when she wanted where she wanted. And well, she succeeded, considering she’s pretty calm now,”

Goro imagined a kid who, after getting the toy they wanted after begging and crying all over the mall, was calm, the tears dry in his face.

“And,” Yoshizawa continued, “I know that she’s either very angry or very desperate. Besides that, I’m lost.”

“Alright then,” cracking his back, Goro turned to Yoshizawa. “Better not keep her waiting. Are you ready?”

Yoshizawa nodded firmly. Capturing the door handle between his hands, Goro opened the door.

Inside, Goro’s and Yoshizawa’s office is a tight room. In the right bottom of the place, there’s a desk with two chairs behind. At the heels of the desk there’s two bookshelves with a window between them that has a view of portion of the city. In the left bottom, two couches aligned facing each other with a table inserted midway, the place where both detectives usually eat. 

And, seated in the chair in front of the desk, there’s a woman. Probably in her fifties-sixties. Her white hair cleansed around her neck. She wears what seems to be an expensive and tailored gray seat. She turns around when he hears them coming in.

“Are you private investigator Majima Hiro?” Her voice is soothing.

“That I am. And I take it you’re Kioko Aiya, am I mistaken?”

Kioko smiles a sad smile. “No, you’re not.”

Both Goro and Yoshizawa take a seat behind the desk.

“Well,” Goro begins, “unless you’re always this impatient, I imagine you have quite the story to tell.”

“You don’t beat the bush around, do you, detective?”

“Not if I can help it. Well, what’s your problem, Kioko-san?”

Kioko grins in way that Goro doesn’t quite manage to decipher. “Hah. I don’t know where to start. Hell, I’m not sure that I should even be here.”

“How about you start from the beginning, Kioko-san. Let us do the rest from that.” Yoshizawa says with an encouraging smile.

Kioko inhales and then exhales, trying to calm herself down. “I imagine you’re quite aware of the party that took place in City Hall two weeks ago, are you not?”

“The twentieth anniversary of Neon Wolves Corps? That party?” Yoshizawa prompts, “I heard that even the CEO’s where there.”

Goro tenses when he hears that name. _Neon Wolves Corporations, have you heard of it?_ Yet, his mask doesn’t slip up just yet.

“Oh, so you have an idea of who Akio and Sara Nakagawa are?” Kioko arched an eyebrow.

Of course, everyone did. Neon Wolves Corps, the only company in all of Japan that could rival with Kirijo Group’s popularity and in quality and products. Multiple factories, buildings all over the country, Neon Wolves were slowly but surely taking the world by storm. And, right at the top, there were Akio and Sara Nakagawa, founders of the company. Not that Goro cared, for him, it was just another group of people taking advantage, eating and destroying everything in their path.

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Goro confirms, “what’s the problem with them?”

“The problem with them is that the entire Nakagawa family’s been missing ever since that party. All of them, even their little boy and newborn.”

“Haven’t you consider taking this to the police?” Goro asks, perhaps a little too quickly. The vanishing of such an important family like the Nakagawas and there was no report about it? Nah, the Nakagawas aren’t just missing, someone made them get lost, and organized crime isn’t something Goro likes to mess with. The police, even less. His eyes remain fixed in Kioko, even if he feels Yoshizawa’s eyes burning in his nape.

“Hmph. You think that a detective agency was my first option? I obviously took this to the police. And you know what they say? That they were working on it, and that I would be a great help if I could keep quiet about this. For the last two weeks I’ve waited, hoping that the police would do their jobs, but yesterday, one of my employees houses got burned down with him in lit for an allegedly ‘gas fugue’.”

Goro’s mouth goes dry, and sweat falls from his forehead. Goro bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep calm.

“Wait, was it that explosion in the outskirts of town?” Yoshizawa asks.

“Yes. The forensics say it was just a gas fugue, but I don’t buy it.”

“You suspect it was foul play, Kioko-san?” Goro intervenes, playing his part.

“I think that something’s off, Detective Majima. The police is acting sketchy, refusing to want to share information about the disappearance of an entire family? The sudden explosion from an employee? No, something’s not right, detectives. That’s why I’m here. I want to hire both of you to find out what really is going on. Will you do that?”

“Who are you, exactly, Kioko-san? You seem to be in a pretty good relationship with both the Nakagawas and the police to know all these information.” Yoshizawa says, too quick for Goro to stop her. “What? You in the market business as well?”

“If having a low-rate café that I can barely pay the rent of counts as being in the market then yes, I am.” Kioko refuted, “listen, I’m just an acquaintance of them, close enough to know if they are missing or not. And smart enough to be aware that the police is hiding something. Is that good for you? Or is it not despicable enough?”

That’ll be fine, Kioko-san.” Goro quickly adds in an attempt to calm the uncomfortable mood that made the air thick.

“Well?” Kioko gives a penetrating gaze at both detectives. “Will you help me out, or not?”

Goro is, deep down, paralyzed. Goddammit, why did Sanae kept from him the possibility of repercussions after the hit was done. About all this. A man like Sanae had to know about the disappearances. And now, there he was, mixed in the middle of god knows what. For now, he has to play it cool, go along with it. 

“For a price.” Goro responds.

With her lips pursed, Kioko grabs her purse. And, from it, he takes stack of bills, accommodating itin the desk. “If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong. But I sincerely hope this will do, detectives.”

“This will do just fine, Kioko-san. And, I’m sorry for doubting of you before, I know how it feels losing a friend.” Yoshizawa added.

That sounded so painfully genuine that Goro has to keep his lips from curling upwards. Neither Goro or Yoshizawa we’re amateurs in this. If you think that your employer is hiding something, or not being completely honest with you, you don’t call them out immediately, showing all your cards and ruining your game in the process. You wait, and do some research on your own before confronting them. Sure, Yoshizawa fucked up, but her acting was so good that Goro doubts Kioko is onto them anymore.

“Alright. This’ll do it, Kioko-san.”

“Good,” Kioko begins to walk by the door, just to stop at the threshold. “Oh, by the way,” she adds, “If any of you need help, my café in Sanamiya, ‘The Golden Drop’, in case you need to make a quick stop. We don’t have the finest food of the city, but I can at least promise a decent cup of coffee if you decide to pass by.”

Goro nods. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

Kioko smiles. “Oh, and I think this goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. If there’s really a bigger fish frying that I think there is right now, I would like for my name to remain unsaid. I don't want anyone involved in this coming after me or anyone I love, is that clear?”

“Of course, Kioko-san. Consider it done.”

“Good… good. Well, Detective Majima, Detective Yoshizawa, it was nice meeting you. Let me know if you find anything.”

And like that, she left.

“Well,” Yoshizawa begins, “and here I was thinking it was going to be a breezy morning. Look, even if she’s right, even if there’s really something off, we can’t trust her. You really think that she’s just a Good Samaritan that wants to do right by them?”

Goro didn’t answer, but she was right. The Golden Drop café was just as Kioko made it out to be, a shithole. Why would an old woman that owns a simple café be interested in the well-being of the CEO’s of such a big company. Better yet, how well acquainted was she really with the family? Besides, she did a bad job at lying, too many bullet holes in her story. And, deep down, Goro suspected that she did it on purpose.

Taking a cigarette hidden inside his coat, Goro lits it, smoking it as he watches the view of the city from the window in their office.

“Well, what do you think?” Yoshizawa insists.

With his brain lost in thought, Goro answers with a distraught: “Hell if I know.”

Fucking Sanae. If only he had told him that there were chances of collateral damage being done after the hit. All the bastard told him was that Suzuki was a nobody who betrayed the clan and ran away. And now there he was, in the middle of someone who was willing to dog deep to find out the truth about Suzuki, and of the disappearance of a well-known family of a well-known company.

As he looks outside, Goro thinks that the maze has never felt more treacherous.

  
  
  
  



	2. After Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reconnaissance mission leaves Commissioner of police Makoto Niijima with more info that she originally though. Makoto visits an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We give it a go to Makoto’s story!

**-MAKOTO-**

The tumble of rain beat down upon the sloping tiles, trickling noisily into the battered guttering before cascading into the dirty alley beneath in a string of waterfalls more heard than seen against the darkness. Torches spluttered against this assault from the heavens, their light waning damply against the vastness of the cloudy back. Even the denizens of Akamu Alley, who did much of their business by the cover of the night, had not ventured out this evening.

Hunching her shoulders against the creeping wetness that was permeating even her thick hooded cloak, Makoto Niijima pulled herself more deeply into the shadows of a wolf-strewn overhang and gazed along the dark, deserted alley.

She didn’t like this. Not one bit.

But what else could she do?

A wizened old man, his face covered in hairy boils, reeled his way around the dark corner, splashing in puddles and singing a bawdy ballad in a voice severely off-key. Makoto shrank more deeply into the darkness and watched as the man staggered drunkenly past, apparently too addled with booze to spy her. A patron of the Ambar Night, no doubt.

Makoto shook her head, scattering water droplets out into the damp night air. Asaki should have been back by now. She should have never agreed to let him go down that filthy dive on his own…

The Ambar Night. Now there was a bar with a reputation that stank like rotten food. Hidden in a dark corner of Akamu alley, it played host to an interesting cross section of Tokyo’s less savoury characters on a nightly basis. Makoto knew for a fact that criminals and thugs  _ acquired  _ many of their business purchases there and Sae had described it as a playground for corrupt cops, for foul-mouthed politicians and the occasional fugitives, a refugee for killers and of course, for those men and women who found such a place to be right up their alley.

And tonight, apparently, a yakuza.

Makoto shook her head. Normally, she would’ve believed the Ambar to be a step down for a yakuza - they usually had more class than this - but the tip off had to be looked into, in a spite of its strange arrival and the ominous feeling it had imbued within her chest. They were cops, after all, that was their job.

And it was a dangerous job at times, especially these days.

She checked her watch, ducking her head as the rain intensified. What was taking so long? Where was Asaki? Why hadn’t he reported back? Asaki was a by-the-book Officer, never late for rendezvous if he could help it. It was strange for him to be so long on reconnaissance - but then, it had been a strange business all around.

It had all started a few hours before. Makoto had just been leaving her office after a long day investigating yakuza lieutenant Sanae Jun when a distinctly bruised and battered rookie had tumbled into the police station, walked toward Asaki’s desk, left a note in it and immediately collapsed in the ground, dead. The note was bloodstained.

It was difficult to read. Blood and what looked like some kind of setting lotion had smeared across the paper, and the hand with which it had been written had shaken so badly that in some places the words were very difficult to make out. After a lot of concentration, the two cops managed to translate the message at last.

_ The Ambar Night. Yakuza. A full moon. He… _

It looked as though the author tried to write more, but they had not succeeded.

Makoto did not like to consider the reason  _ why. _

And it was a full moon that night.

It might be a trap. They knew that. But she and Asaki were cops. They’d had no choice but to investigate.

Asaki, an expert undercover operative in the Tokyo police force whose face was little known in the dark circles, had immediately volunteered to go in. Makoto, who thanks to her role as Commissioner of police, was rather better known, had agreed to wait at the mouth of the alley in case Asaki needed help.

And now here she was, waiting.

A small woman wrapped in a sodden cloak scurried hurriedly out of the shadows, darting past Makoto with a furtive glance at her direction before hastily leaving into the better lit expanse of Akamu Alley beyond. A moment later, she was again alone but for the rain.

She checked her watch again. Akihiro Asaki was fifteen minutes overdue.

Abruptly, Makoto’s resolve hardened. That was it. She’d waited enough.

But she had barely managed half a step before all hell broke loose.

Sudden screaming echoed the length of Akamu Alley, the sound of shattering glass and breaking tables and  _ gunshots.  _ And it was coming from the direction of the Ambar Night.

And one of the voices was very familiar.

_ Asaki! _

But taking her revolver out, tucked in a holster located in her belt, Makoto only managed half a step before she saw headlights that belonged to the front of a car facing her direction. She pointed the gun at the front.

“Tokyo P.D! Stop the car and come out with your hands up!” Makoto shouted.

But the driver of the car didn’t listen and, in a flicker, he was riding at full speed right at Makoto. 

She stood there, frozen. She wasn’t going to shoot, she didn’t  _ want  _ to, so her smartest idea was to simply get out of the way, but she also didn’t want to let the driver on the run.

It didn’t matter. Seconds before the car would’ve most definitely hit Makoto, the man behind the wheel turned to the left, the tires making a screeching noise. In a matter of seconds, the car crashed against the tube of a streetlight located in the beginning of the alley, the noise of the crash ricocheted against Makoto’s ears. The smoke coming out of the engine joined the rain as the only sounds in the place.

Keeping the revolver in hand, Makoto headed to the car, and her heart sank when he recognized it as the one Asaki used on their way to the bar. A sudden strangled cry of frustration provoked a shiver to go down the cop’s spine.

She arrived at the driver seat of the car, and opened the door. She looked inside, and nearly vomited.

Akihiro Asaki laid twitching and gasping in the onslaught of the rain, scattered, battered and damaged. Half an arm was missing and a good chunk of his torso too, exposing several vital organs absent from their cavities. It was by far the biggest mess splinch Makoto had ever beheld and she thought she had seen it all.

Asaki was breathing in desperate rasps, his eyes wild as he raked his dismembered body. Appalled, Makoto took a rapid step forward, dropping to a crouch at her fellow cop’s side.

“Asaki,” she asked hurriedly and in desperate concern. “What happened?”

But the answer came immediately apparent as Asaki began to scream in utter agony.

Makoto could hear the ruthless and sloppy footsteps of someone else. Sickness welled within her stomach. Somewhere not too far away, someone was escaping like a coward.

And with a realization that hung like a leaden weight across her heart, Makoto knew it was already too late for her to stop them.

Fingers,  _ detached  _ fingers, grasped suddenly around her wrist. Makoto stared down into Asaki’s pain filled eyes.

“B-Black S-S-Samurai!” he gasped.

“What?” Makoto was instantly at her companion’s side. “Asaki, what? Who did this? What did you hear?”

“Black Samurai!” Asaki rasped again, his voice strangled with a choking pain. “Black Samurai… b-brother…  _ Goro Akechi…” _

_ What?  _ Makoto could see the light fading from her fellow friend as he scrambled desperately closer. Asaki’s head and shoulders lurched suddenly, his face thrusting to within inches of Makoto’s own as he spat out two last words with his final gasp of breath. “Neon… w-wolves…”

An empathetic shout sounded from the far end of the alley, blood spurted violently from Asaki’s nose and the corner of his mouth as he drew a final, ragged breath. His fingers, still gripping Makoto’s wrist, convulsed abruptly. Her eyes went wide with horror.

And then the fingers dropped with a splash onto the wet ground as the light faded from behind his gaze. A moment later, only the splash of pattering water moved against the soaking ground.

Makoto drew a raspy breath.  _ Asaki.  _ Dear, God. What a  _ way  _ to…

The sound of a screaming filled with sharp pain broke into Makoto’s ears, the second person who made it out alive had just stolen a car and left the Alley, not before falling to the ground first.

Anger welled within Makoto’s chest. However oddly it had arrived before them, this mission had seemed like no more than a simple reconnaissance. But now, Akihiro Asaki, a good Officer, a good man, was dead. And the person who has escaped had to have something to do with it.

She wanted to stay with her friend. She wanted to gather her poor colleague’s remains and see them back to his family. However, the thirst to confront Asaki’s killers face to face and bring them before justice was stronger. At the end, that was her duty, that was her job.

She turned her shocked and angered glare at the end of the Alley,  _ the Ambar Night,  _ that was her starting point.

With a firm step, Makoto headed to the bar, gun in hand. Entering the bar, she found it in complete and utter darkness, a broken spotlight on the ceiling was the cause. Grabbing a flashlight wrapped in her belt, she turned it on, illuminating the place dimly.

As expected from the ruckus Makoto heard minutes ago, the bar was turned upside down; tables pulled down and broken glass were the new decorations of the establishment. In the bar section, what looked like a male bartender laid down in a seat, a bullet hole shined brightly in his forehead. In the ground, the light showed a blood trail that started from a pair of stairs that lead up and above and ended at the entrance of the bar, where Asaki’s car was once located. Asaki probably dragged himself down from upstairs, through the floor and finally, into his car.

Throat locked, Makoto followed the blood trail above. Penetrating the first floor, she discovered a mostly empty room. The trail ended with a chair in the middle of the hollow place. However, there was a person  _ seated  _ in the chair, a man. 

That man, however, had the clear hole of a bullet wound in his forehead. His eyes had been gouged out, his ears had been ripped off and his mouth, opened in a grotesque manner, showed a lack of tongue. In the places where the eyes, ears and tongue once were had been replaced with the crimson color of blood. Diverting her eyes to the rest of the man’s body, she found that another hole had been burst opened in the left side of his chest. But, what really caught Makoto’s attention was that the ribs had been cut open, drilling his lungs in the way, showing that, whoever did this, had taken away the man’s heart too.

On the right side of the man’s chest, Makoto illuminated the pin that clearly belonged to the yakuza in the Okami Clan. The tip off had been correct, a yakuza had been in the Ambar Night, and was assassinated in it.

Makoto couldn’t do anything. No tears left his eyes and she couldn’t get any breath drawn out of her throat. The shock was too much for her to even open her mouth.

Next to the chair, there was a nightstand with a white envelope placed in it. With shaky hands, Makoto settled the flashlight in her mouth as she opened the envelope with the other.

Inside the envelope, there was a note written with an unstable and rocky hand worth of a maniac. In the note, Makoto read:

_  
To the Phantom Thieves of hearts: _

_  
There’s no heart left to steal. _

_ :) _

**________**

The end of the Phantom Thieves era hadn’t been enough for Makoto. Sure, she’d celebrated. She even felt a great swell of relief as the weight of the entire world’s future had been lifted off her shoulders.

Only, she wasn’t free.

She learned rather quickly that a gilded cage was still very much a cage, and with Akira becoming officially the leader of the vigilante group, the attention of the media was dispersed among every Thief. And Makoto, of course, was caught in the middle of it.

It was events and parties at first. Everyone wanted to invite  _ them  _ around, and she was always inclined to go. She was told it would be rude not to, after all.

They all had become a symbol of the end of the dark days. Only they didn’t seem to be that ended. Bigotry was still rampant, criminals still lurked, the world of politics, despite the fresh blood that was relatively well-meaning, was still corrupt. Masayoshi Shido was simply replaced with another demon.

When she walked through the streets of Tokyo, she swore she could still see Mementos between the lines, sulking smug and content to its darkness and shadows. There were still rich people who looked down on the poor. There was still a festering rot of superiority in the minds of the world, even if they supposedly stole the treasure of  _ everyone. _

So she joined the police force. It seemed the logical step at the time. She could go out there and make a real difference. For fuck’s sake, she’d even promised  _ him  _ that she would, one day, become the goddamn Commissioner of the Tokyo police force.

Only they’d just wanted to just wave her through, hand her a shiny badge and sit her behind a nice, fancy desk in a big office doing absolutely nothing. But of course they did, they had an ‘allegedly’ Phantom Thief at their mercy, imagine the wonders that could do to their public image. She’d balked, of course. She wanted to be out there, helping people! She wanted to make a difference.

So, reluctantly, it was agreed to put her through training.

She quickly discovered, though, that most of the ’training’ was learning a number of rules and regulations. There were no tactics, no classes in investigation or to at least learn how to use a gun properly. It was a bunch of laws drilled into her skull and reminding her time and again how little the world had changed.

Then, they had the brilliant idea to partner her with Wein Natsuhiko.

Makoto was the first to admit Natsuhiko knew what he was doing. He was an intelligent and skilled detective who did his job thoroughly and without complaint. Though he taught Makoto a number of ways of refining and mastering her deduction and combat skills, he was also a constant reminder of the ways of the law of the world that had still not really changed.

For a time she’d stuck to the job as best as she could. It was a commitment she wanted to live up to.

Then, it happened.

_ The Big Three. _

After the fallout of Shido and the eradication of the yakuza clan led by Junya Kaneshiro, the world of organized crime was once again hollow, ready for new players to place new bets. That way, three originally small time systems decided to fill the gap that Kaneshiro’s clan left behind. However, instead of doing it against each other, they decided to  _ unite. _

The Okami yakuza clan, a crime syndicate simply known as ‘The Organization’ and the mafia family of the Sagawas had decided to come together; and, instead of initiating a gang war, they decided to divide different illicit activities and territory all across Japan with each other, taking advantage of the mess Kaneshiro and Shido left behind. Soon enough, the three of them controlled all criminal movements in Japan, and they were quickly known as ‘The Big Three.’

Just like that, the police force, instead of having three meek foes, had one powerful enemy.

Makoto couldn’t lie, she was impressed.

When there was a chance to join a task force focused on bringing down the Big Three, Makoto jumped on it, thinking that it would be a chance to get away from the oppressive rigidity of Natsuhiko and the government. She turned out to be right.

She also turned out to be in over her fucking head. Again! The team she’d joined had been rather infamous for chewing up young, idealistic cops and spitting them back out in gibbering wrecks. A reputation no one told her about until she was already stuck with them.

Like that wasn’t enough, the team also turned out to be full of people that were all in the Big Three’s payroll, so the task force was nothing but a cover up to keep the illegal activities of the group covered and  _ safe. _

And when they realized that Makoto wasn’t one of them, it didn’t take long for  _ it  _ to begin.

First, it was the half-hearted and ambiguous threats when she didn’t accept the bribes. Then, they moved into taking action. Vandalizing Makoto’s house, destroying her bike and, just as the finishing touch, killing the cat that Sae and her wife, Tae, had adopted mere days before. Finally, they decided that a good beat up was what she needed. They ambushed her in the parking lot of the station, bats in hand and masks covering their faces, and began beating her up. She was able to hold her ground at first, but there were too many, and a good swing from someone was enough to send her to the ground, and they simply continued to kick her until she was unable to move and her sight was a complete blur. And, without a care in the world, they ran away, leaving Makoto behind to lay in a pool of her own blood.

After several hours laying in the ground, Makoto was able to move, and dragged herself through the streets of the city, not caring if someone saw her. It didn’t matter, since no one approached her to try and help her. Her feet took her to the threshold of the house where Sae and Tae Takemi lived. What happened after that is still a muddy haze, but Makoto can vaguely remember Takemi attending to her wounds while she buried her face in her sister’s lap, doing her best to hold the tears back.

The next day after that, Makoto woke up and tumbled her way into the Niijima-Takemi bathroom and proceeded to look at herself in the mirror. Catching a look at her broken nose, her bruised cheeks and her busted lip as she felt the hot pain produced by her smashed ribs, she made  _ herself  _ a promise. Not to her sister and not to Akira, but to herself. She promised that she would become the Commissioner of the Tokyo police force, not mattering how many more beat ups she would have to endure, how many murder attempts or how many times others would spit in her eye - both figurative and literally - she would become the next police Commissioner, whatever it took.

And as she said it happened. Makoto went from detective to Sergeant, then to Lieutenant, to police Captain and, just a mere year ago, to Commissioner.

However, going up all those ranks wasn’t an easy job, and Makoto felt almost… empty, like a part of herself was lost. And with reason, her little life plan costed her almost everything; she had cut communication with pretty much every Phantom Thief, Sae and she were, like in the old days, barely acquaintances and her friendship with Eiko, one that lasted both high school and college, was brutally torn apart in a discussion Makoto had with her, one where they screamed their throats off and left little unsaid. One that ended the friendship for good.

Sure, Makoto accomplished her dream, she was now in a high position of power, and was finally able to change the world; but, was it worth it? That was a question that she had no answer to this very day.

Last night, after Asaki was assassinated and she found the body of that yakuza, Makoto barely had the force to call for back-up at the scene of the crime. It all happened in a flash, the bar was quickly shut down by the police and she found herself being interrogated by the chief of police even quicker. She told him  _ almost  _ everything; the bloody rookie who left the note in Asaki’s desk, how the late Officer was late at coming back from the mission, how she found his body and finally, the mutilated body of the yakuza with that lovely note in the nightstand next to him.

And Makoto means almost everything because there’s one thing that she kept just to herself: Asaki’s last words.  _ Black Samurai. Brother. Goro Akechi. _

Once he was done interrogating her, Makoto was free to go, giving the instruction of waiting until the forensic result of the two bodies was brought to the force and for Asaki’s funeral to pass before continuing working on the case.

Back out in the chilly and wintry streets, with her clothes soaking wet and with a trembling in her entire body caused by the cold, Makoto found herself… lost.

Usually, Makoto would head straight home after finishing her work at the office. If she wasn’t too tired, she would cook something to dine or maybe even catch up with any show she was currently watching. If she was really tired, she would simply pray to reach her bedroom before passing out of tiredness.

That time, however, Makoto didn’t want to get home, she didn’t want to watch a movie or get some dinner. She wasn’t hungry or tired or sleepy. She didn’t even want to work on the case, the reason why she told her subordinates to wait for the study and funeral to pass. So, instead, she got on her bike (not the blue and silver one that reminded her so much of Johanna, but a red and black one she bought a few months ago), and decided to ride through the streets of Tokyo in an aimless manner. Before she knew it, she was at the doorstep of her once friend turned acquaintance Haru Okumura.

Now, things aren’t the way they used to be, that much was obvious, as well as a pill hard to swallow on Makoto’s book. High school was the prime of her life. She managed to gain friends, solve mysteries, discover family; what else could she ask for? But all those things were temporary. She graduated, her friends - despite some being fairly close with each other - had gone all through different paths and Futaba’s grown up into a fine woman.

They aren’t in high school anymore, the metaverse is gone and the only murders or mysteries she’s been solving are the ones in reality; the ones tainted in corrupted malice that would be in par to any supernatural case.

It has been years; nine, to be more precise, and the more Makoto digs further with her job, the more she’s convinced that there are things that are far more scarier than personas battling off Shadows and that’s to deal with the limitations of reality and the endless stream of corrupted desire that rests inside every human being, Makoto included.

At this point, it’s normal. The dead bodies, the unlikely twists, the uncalled plots of betrayal; Makoto looks at these through dozens of files and millions of images that she has learned to keep the vomit in her stomach.

And yet, despite all that, despite Makoto having not talked to any of her fellow Phantom Thieves in years, that didn’t stop her from showing up uninvited at the penthouse of Haru, late at night. And it was a surprise when her former friend welcomed her with the biggest grin in her face, immediately letting her in.

Makoto really didn’t deserve to have Haru as her friend.

Inside the penthouse, Makoto also encountered Ryuji and, carrying a bottle of wine in his hands, the three of them sat down in the colossal living room of the house. The conversation, despite starting off as awkward, got really comfy once Makoto had a nice quantity of alcohol in her system.

Between the jokes and the anecdotes, and with the warmth that contrasted nicely with the wintry weather, Makoto felt every time more sleepy as the minutes went on.

She didn’t tell them about what happened, and that was something that Makoto regretted with time, but she just couldn’t do it. The rational and intelligent side of her howled for her to tell the truth, tell them about what happened back at the Ambar Night, how there was a killer set in a witch hunt against all of them. That was the truth, whether she wanted to accept it or not. Someone wanted to draw her into the bar. Usually, Makoto was very closed and shy about her cases, not sharing them with anybody that wasn’t a member of the force that she could trust. However, this wasn’t any case, whomever did this has a high chance of going after the other Thieves. And, in an even worse way, dead man Goro Akechi seemed to have something to do with that. The plan should’ve been obvious: visit his former friends, call the others who were scattered around Japan and bring them back to Tokyo, so they could all confront this threat together. That should’ve been the plan.

And, despite that, there was another voice that also screamed into Makoto’s head, this one with a much different plan. That voice told her that all the other Thieves had chosen different lifestyles, they all had decided to be good people. Makoto was the only one who was determined to be a cop, to go down that same tricky and grisly and perverse path that her father rode through as well.

Makoto was the only one stupid enough to join the police, therefore, she should also be the one to pay the consequences.

That voice told her that the only way to keep her friends safe was to hold them in the dark corner of ignorance, to confront the issue by herself and she alone.

Makoto preferred what the second voice was offering.

Clinging to maintain the events that transpired sheer hours ago a secret from Haru and Ryuji, Makoto found herself giving in to the fatigue, and blacked out in the penthouse’s large sofa.

Makoto didn’t know how much time she was out, but she did know that she was awakened by Ryuji’s voice, which had been reduced to a flat murmur. “What do you think happened?” he had asked, and Makoto didn’t move.

“I’m not quite sure,” corresponding to Ryuji's small tone of voice, Haru answered. “Maybe it was Akira-kun? You know she’s always had a soft spot for him.”

“Nah, I doubt it. She has never let shit like that let her down…” Ryuji let the sentence linger, as he hummed. Makoto could almost touch her old friend’s musings. “Oh! Maybe it was her job! I can only imagine the shit you’ll have to see by being police Commissioner.”

“You think so? Then it had to be something really dark, because Mako is strong, she was when we were young and so far, she doesn’t seem to have stopped being… ugh, doing this right now won’t do any good. We won’t get anywhere and we’ll only get her up. It has been years, honey, we can’t tell if Mako-chan is the same person she was years ago. Hey, I’ll talk to her tomorrow, okay? Try to see what’s going on.”

A twinge attacked Makoto’s heart with a sharp burst of pain that resembled the jab of a needle the moment she heard those words. She appreciated Haru and the concern as well, of course. Nonetheless, Makoto didn’t think she had the courage to deal with a heart-to-heart talk with  _ anyone. _

In defiance of all that, the weariness overcame the concern, and Makoto, just a few seconds after that conversation, was once again deep in sleep.

The second time Makoto was pulled away from her sleep, it only took the penetrating sun rays coming from the city landscape located in the place’s living room for her to realize that this time she was actually able to get some sleep. Amidst a series of groans and cries, Makoto forced herself to stand up from the sofa, where a large and warm blanket had been pulled over her shoulders. As her eyed got used to the light, she heard what sounded like someone walking through the place.

As the blurriness left her eyes, Makoto identified the sound as Haru walking through the living room of the house, dressed in a red and purple suit. Her friend stopped mid-way once her eye caught a now awakened Makoto.

“Oh, hey there! You are finally awake, good…” Haru trailed off for a moment as she looked at her wristwatch. “Afternoon.” She stated, letting the word roll like it was a joke.

Makoto’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? Afternoon?! Shit!” Makoto immediately stood up, but a stunning pain that felt like the beginning of a migraine forced her to sit back down.

“You must be tired. Let me call Ahmya so she can make you some breakfast, I imagine you’re starving.”

“No, no, I appreciate the offer, but I need to get to… work…”  _ work.  _ Makoto’s eyes widened even more. The images and memories came back to her on a whim. The gunshots. The battered and massacred body of Asaki. The eyeless, earless and tongueless face of that yakuza brightened by her flashlight. The note. Goro Akechi. Haru Okumura and her husband, Ryuji Sakamoto, smiling splendidly at her. Falling asleep with a warm blanket over her.

Makoto felt the vomit rise up from her stomach into her throat, forcing herself to physically swallow down the vomit. She closed her eyes, only for those bloody images to invade her in the darkness. Makoto felt her eyes well up. 

“Oh, c’mon, just a quick breakfast- - Makoto?” Haru interrupted herself, seeing the crippled state Makoto was beginning to get into. “Hey, Makoto?”

Makoto’s soaked clothes had seemingly dried off, but now her cloak and pants were sticking grossly at her body, which did not help her to recover from her current state of mind.

“Makoto?”

Makoto bite his tongue, with the purpose of hurting herself. The business that took place in the bar last night clearly took a mental toll on her. She should have never visited Haru. There was a  _ killer  _ on the loose, an assassin that was threatening to rain down pain for his friends, Makoto had no time to waste in sleeping until noon or to visit old friends when she should be busy saving those same old friends.

She needs to leave as soon as he can, investigate the Ambar Night again. Giving the orders of waiting for the forensic results to arrive or for Asaki’s funeral to pass before continuing the case was stupid. She did not have the time to wait. Waiting is simply a chance she can’t take.

She needed to go out there. Do his job. Stop that assassin before they can hurt anyone else again. Because if they do, it’s all gonna be her fault. All her fault all her fault all her fault all her- -

“Makoto!” the Commissioner of police felt something coming her way, and, with something similar to muscle memory, her hand acted unwittingly, stopping whatever was approaching Makoto’s orbit mid-way.

But the suffocated cry she heard afterward sounded too familiar for Makoto’s likening. Turning her head to the right, she saw the scared and confused face of Haru, as her friend was trying to hide the pain she was feeling provoked by Makoto’s firm grip on her wrist.

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Makoto let go off Haru’s wrist promptly. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Occupational hazards, am I right?” she tried to brush it off as a joke, but Haru’s eyes were filled with so much disturbance and apprehension that it didn’t take a genius to realize how unfunny Haru found the situation.

“Listen, Mako,” the heiress sat down on the large sofa, right next to Makoto. They were so close that Makoto was beginning to feel suffocated. “I know that all of this must be hard for you, it has been like that for all of us. I…  _ understand  _ that you thought you needed to act tough and emotionless back in high school, and I think that now, as Commissioner, you might feel that way now too, but I ain’t your teammate now, Mako, I’m your  _ friend.  _ There’s no need for you to keep your thoughts a secret for me, you do get that right? So, whatever you’re going through, anything that worries you and makes you afraid, I want you to feel comfortable to talk to me about it, okay?”

Makoto felt her stomach sink down. God, she had forgot,  _ the heart to heart talk.  _

“And it doesn’t even have to be me,” Haru doubled down, “I know a few therapists that would be willing to help you.”

Makoto had considered it. Therapists, psychiatrists, someone who she could speak to about her feelings without the fear of consequences. But the idea of having a complete stranger poking around her mind, forcing her to come clean around her insecurities and issues sounded, honestly, terrifying, even for her.

“Y-Yeah, thank you, I, uh, appreciate your concern. And sure, I’ll think about it,” she wasn’t going to, “but I have to leave, y’know, work. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a heads up if I’m ever free so we can go hang out somewhere.”

Makoto tried to stand up again, even if she still felt dizzy and her legs were still shaking, but the steady grasp of Haru’s hand on her shoulder forced her back down.

“Wait,” her friend had said. Her voice had dropped a few decibels and it sounded oddly threatening. It reminded Makoto of the same voice her friend used to do when she ordered the last shadows remaining to beg for mercy. “Listen, let's do this: wait for me here, I have a few things to do for the day and I have to run in a few minutes. But, if you stay here, we can go eat dinner somewhere tonight, just you, me and Ryuji. I know some good places.” The persona of a gentle yet serious business woman had returned to Haru without issue. The dire and dangerous woman Makoto saw earlier had disappeared in a matter of seconds.

“Sounds good, but it’s going to have to wait. I suppose you can imagine being well, in a rank like the one I’m in doesn’t really left much time to spare so- -”

“I’m sure that there are other honest Officers willing to take a chance at proving themselves. So why not let them take the chains for today?” Haru refuted, her voice sounded pragmatic and factual.

_ Ha, I wish there were people like those,  _ Makoto thought to herself.

“The headquarters would get set on fire if I’m not there. Trust me, I know these people.” Makoto really wished that was a joke, but it really wasn’t. She could count the capable men in the force with only the fingers of her left hand.

“Do you remember what happened after Father died, Mako?” Haru asked, changing the topic in such an abrupt manner that it made Makoto frown and for a painful grimace to cross her face.

“I mean, yes, but I don’t understand what that has to do with any of this?”

“Do you remember all those business meetings I had to attend to? All those men who simply pretended to care for me when all they wanted was my money? How Sugimura wouldn’t stop coming to my house?” Haru shot a burst of questions with expectant eyes. “And do you remember how you let me stay at your home when I was tired and didn’t want to deal with Sugimura a moment longer? Hell, you pretty much told Sae-kun to simply deal with it when she found out about it.”

A crooked smirk curled in Makoto’s lips. She naturally remembered those days. She could almost taste the bittersweet flavor of them. “Yes, I remember.”

Haru matched her smile. “If you don’t want to think of these as an act of kindness, then see it as me repaying the debt I owe you for letting me crash at your place all those times.”

“I… I’ll think about it.”

“Please do.” Haru pressed Makoto’s knee in a gentle and friendly manner. Then, the heiress’ eyes diverted to her wristwatch. “Shit, gotta run. I need to attend this meeting,” she stood up, leaving Makoto alone. Her friend picked up her purse and began walking toward the door that led to the first floor. “I better see you when I come back,” Haru said with a teasing and playful smile. The joking tone rolled down her tongue. “Oh, and Makoto, don’t be a stranger. Not with me and not with anyone. I’m sure that there are a lot of people that care about you.”

With a reassuring smile, Haru opened the door swiftly and left the house.

Makoto sat there for a few minutes, taking everything her former colleague said to her. She began to massage her temples, trying to keep the cry in her throat. Despite Haru’s reasonings, she didn’t understand everything that was at stake, that murderer that was threatening both her friends and family. She couldn’t just sit there and drink coffee as she allowed the melancholy to take over her, she needed to do something about it.

Waiting until she saw Haru’s limousine leave the zone through the landscape window of the living room, Makoto was quick to escape the spacious yet suffocating house. The pan was simple: get home, take a fast bath and pick a change of clothes up.

Leaving the penthouse, Makoto found her black and red bike waiting for her in the same spot she parked it the night before, right in front of Haru’s house. She was barely accommodating herself in her bike when she felt her phone buzzing in her jean pocket. Taking it out, Makoto saw the name  **FUJIWARA** as the owner of the call.

“Sergeant Fujiwara,” Makoto picked up. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?” Her voice, strict and severe, did not match up with her incessant headache and her shivering, but changing her voice according to the situation was simply something Makoto learned to refine with time.

_ “Yeah, yeah, good afternoon. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you the whole morning.”  _ A weary and throaty voice picked up on the other side. One that did little to hide the wisdom that had accumulated in Fujiwara’s larynx, one that revealed a man drained by time.

Akihiko Fujiwara was the sergeant of the Tokyo police force, and one good at that. He was also one of the few gifted and ethical men that Makoto could say, with hand in heart, that she trusted. From occasion to occasion, Makoto really believed that he should be the Commissioner, not her.

“Busy,” as she looked at the facade of Haru’s penthouse, Makoto answered. “I’ve been… busy.”

“ _ Well, I’m afraid that whatever business you have is going to have to wait. There has been a break-in at the house of a big time politician. And, I personally believed that it might have something to do with the guy you’re looking for, the one of the Ambar Night.” _

Makoto felt her heart skip a beat. “Why do you say that?” Makoto inquired. She was beginning to have quite the hard time at keeping the tough, nothing-can-break-me persona as the minutes went on. “Did the killer leave anything specific? Another note? Did they hurt somebody?” Her tone of voice was growing with the end of every second, she really,  _ really  _ didn’t have time for games.

_ “First of all, no, they didn’t hurt nobody. Just material things. Second of all, you’re gonna have to come here to tell, is all very… distinct and precise, to say the least. Hold on, I’ll tell you the address.”  _ Fujiwara told Makoto a location that, weirdly enough, she thought she recognized. When her brain pieced together, with a possible suspect on why she remembered that address, Makoto felt her blood run cold.

_ No, please no. Please don’t be him. _

“Good, I’ll be right there.” Makoto swallowed down as she prepared to ask her next question. Making sure her voice was just as rigid and relentless as before, she shot her shoot. “Do you know the name of this politician?”

“ _ Oh, yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. I, uh, I think you may know him,”  _ Fujiwara said, which did nothing but aument Makoto’s dread.  _ “His name is…” _

There was a moment of silence before Fujiwara finished the sentence.

_ “Kurusu. Kurusu Akira.” _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is fine.
> 
> Makoto is fine.
> 
> Everything will be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Not with a bang but with a whimper.


End file.
